


Not Everything Leaves Scars

by epkitty



Category: Trigun
Genre: Ghosts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-01
Updated: 2011-03-01
Packaged: 2017-10-16 00:43:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/166624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epkitty/pseuds/epkitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vash and Wolfwood look for shelter in a sandstorm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Everything Leaves Scars

**Author's Note:**

> I like to pair this story with the poem "Haunted House" by Edwin Arlington Robinson.

The wind blew even harder, sending the sand into a fitful storm. “Vash! Ugh… We’ve gotta find cover!”

Blue eyes sheltered behind strange lenses flashed back through the swirling dust.

“ _C’mon!_ ” The priest demanded. He stuffed the base of his giant muslin-wrapped cross into the sand and leaned his shoulder into the lee of it for protection. “It’s like you’re inhuman, man; we aren’t even goin’ anywhere particular!” Nicolas D. Wolfwood glared ahead of him across the stinging wind.

Vash’s red coat flapped wildly in the storm. His back was turned to the priest. In the riot of the sandy gale, it seemed an age he stood there. But when he turned around a second time, he was all smiles, as painfully false as always. “You’re right!” he cried cheerfully over the sound of the wind and forged directly into the face of it. “This way!”

“What are you, psychic now?” Wolfwood called. “If we go back the way we came, at least we know there’s a town! With _liquor_!”

But Vash just kept going.

Wolfwood howled a curse to the heavens, dragged the great cross back up on his shoulder and bowed his head to the wind. “Vash!” he shouted, barely able to make out the red form ahead of him. “Shit!” he cried as the sand stung his eyes. He closed them and shouted louder.

A gentle hand gripped his and Wolfwood followed blindly. They couldn’t have gone more than sixty heels, but it felt like iles in the sandstorm.

The hand tugged him upward, and Wolfwood didn’t understand until he tripped up a set of rough-hewn steps. He shuffled forward until his cross banged into something as he was pulled through a door. He hunkered down, turned this way and that until he fell forward. The hand released him and he realized the wind had stopped, except for what blew through the door after him. He stumbled forward, let the cross thunk to the floor as his hands went to his eyes, rubbing as he cursed long, loud, and vehement. “God dammit Vash—”

“Hey,” came the familiar voice behind him, “How’d you get here before me?”

Wolfwood pivoted, opening blurry eyes to see Vash shutting the door, shaking the sand out of impossibly spiky hair. He sputtered incomprehensibly as his eyes adjusted to the deep dark of the old building. “You mean you… Then whose hand was I holding?!”

“Huh?” Vash said, blinking innocently.

“Ahh!” Wolfwood shrieked, vigorously wiping his hand on his pant leg, remembering that the hand had been bare, and considerably smaller than Vash’s. “What the flying fuck is going on?”

“You okay, Wolfwood?” Vash asked, stepping forward.

“No, man; I’m freaking out!”

Vash turned away, rubbing the grime from the old glass windows. The sand blasted against the windows, but somewhere the sun cut through the storm, and shreds of billowy light meandered into the room. “Well, it’s shelter,” Vash pointed out, going from window to window, wiping away the dust, pushing ratty velour curtains apart until enough wavering light filtered through to illuminate the majority of the room. “I thought I’d been this way before.”

Wolfwood finally looked around, still blinking the sand from dark eyes. “Whoa…”

They stood in the entrance hall of what could only be described as a mansion. Tattered rugs and faded pictures gave the impression of something old and forgotten, almost fossilized with the layer of dust coating everything. “What is this place?” Wolfwood wondered, tracking footprints over the wooden floor as he approached a side-table cluttered with trinkets. A silver hairbrush with ivory-white bristles, enameled picture frames enclosing washed out photos, delicate ceramic figurines with hairline cracks across white faces painted in delicate pink and blue.

Vash curiously approached a door. The old wooden monstrosity creaked long and low as he pushed it open. The parlor beyond was done up in red wallpaper and upholstery that had since faded to rusty orange.

Wolfwood approached. “Okay. I’m still freaking out. But what is this place? Why didn’t anyone in town mention it? Why hasn’t it been looted ages ago? No squatters… nothing—”

Vash turned to him with a grin. “It must be haunted!”

Wolfwood’s eyes narrowed. “Ha ha.”

Vash grew serious. “Last time there was a storm like this, the night was freezing.”

The priest nodded, sand sliding from his head as he did.

“Let’s find a room without windows, build up a fire in the fireplace, settle in for the night.”

“If the flue works, maybe,” Wolfwood agreed. “We could break up some furniture to burn…” he sounded hesitant. “The whole damn place is made of wood; who could afford something like this?”

Vash shrugged and ushered Wolfwood back into the hall, shutting the parlor away.

They opened more heavy, creaking doors to more dusty, ghostly rooms. They found a dining room with a long table, sixteen exquisitely carved chairs around it. Candelabra sat upon the surface along with fine china plates, full arrays of tarnished silverware, and crystal goblets at every setting. A giant chandelier hung from the domed ceiling and tiny crystal baubles dangled from every branch. They sent an empty, tinkling chime through the air when the door opened.

There was a sitting room where everything was draped in dirty lace. Cracked teacups wallowed in stained saucers upon spindly-legged tables. Plush velvet poofs split at the seams, revealing yellowed stuffing descending in a frozen waterfall. An old brown stain splattered across the love seat.

Finally, they found the kitchen. There was only one small window to the world outside, and a pot-bellied stove with a pipe directly out the wall sat in one corner.

Vash smiled. “Homey, innit?”

Wolfwood grimaced. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Awwww… is wittle Wolfwood fwaid of da big, bad ghosts?”

Wolfwood slapped the back of his friend’s head. “Quit it!”

= = = = =

A worktable filled the center of the gloomy kitchen, massive and scarred. Two plain chairs sat at its edges. On one hung a massive red coat whose tattered tails ended in the negative space of a thousand gunfights; the other sported a hand-stitched black jacket, white crosses embroidered on the cuffs.

The white-draped cross stood against a stained plaster wall. Other assorted weapons lay near the two men sprawled out upon the mattress. They’d dragged it down from the nearest bedroom and piled snug quilts and blankets upon it near the old iron stove, which burned merrily as it ate away the dry wood of tables, chairs, and broken planks from the porch.

Vash had braved the storm to ensure the stovepipe led to a clear end through the wall, while Wolfwood had cleaned out the stove itself.

Now, they lay pliant and bone-tired upon the old mattress stuffed with they didn’t know what. It seemed that whenever Vash moved, sand fell from some place or other, out of blond hair or the seams of his black leather. Wolfwood was streaked with ash, great gray stripes of it painted his white shirt and pale face.

They both looked like ghosts, and they had laughed about it until the fatigue finally pulled them down into sleep.

= = = = =

“Wassat?!” Wolfwood demanded, bolting up out of a dead sleep.

“Ehn?” Vash asked, rolling off the mattress with a dull thud. “Ow.”

“Noise,” Wolfwood said, gun in hand as his furious eyes searched the shadows of the low ceiling.

“There’s nothing here,” Vash said, crawling back up and half over Wolfwood. He deftly pulled open the stove door and shoved in plenty of their splinters of wood until the fire was built up to a chattering, friendly state. Vash closed the door and backed off.

Wolfwood was looking at him.

“What?”

The priest grunted and laid his gun aside. The yellow light showed only the same dull kitchen, nothing amiss. “Thought I heard… Dunno. Woke me up.”

“I was probably snoring,” Vash offered with a stupid smile.

“Don’t think so,” Wolfwood said.

Vash curled up on his side like a child, black-gloved hands clutched under his head. Blue eyes sparkled in the firelight. “We could tell ghost stories—”

“No!! I mean, uh, nah. We should try to get some sleep. Sandstorms don’t last long; we should be able to set out tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Vash said, turning to his back to stare at the ceiling. “Hm. Doesn’t that stain look like—”

“No, goddammit! Sleep!” Wolfwood thrust a finger into Vash’s face to emphasize his point.

“What are you afraid of, Nick?” Those blue eyes were suddenly serious, the mouth a straight and steady line.

“Dunno,” Wolfwood sighed, dark eyes darting. “Feels like… we shouldn’t be here. Don’t you sense it?”

Vash shook his head. “It’s just an old house, Wolfwood.”

“Have you been here before?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. All right.” Nick finally set his head back on the blankets. He sneezed. “Goddamned dust!” he cursed, sitting up again.

“For a priest, you sure do swear a lot.”

Vash reached to his side to pull a white sheet up around his scarred arms as he turned toward Wolfwood again. Only his bright blue eyes and spiky hair protruded from the covers.

Wolfwood finally laughed. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

Vash laughed too, and snuck out a black-gloved hand to grab Wolfwood’s upper arm and gently pull him back down into their nest of blankets.

Then Vash rolled atop him, straddling Wolfwood’s thighs as he brought the sheet over them both like a billowing mushroom cloud.

“What are you doing!?”

Vash sniggered quietly as the sheet slowly settled around them and the fire flickered through the fabric, a golden glow illuminating their intimate cocoon. “There,” Vash said, “now you can’t see all the gloomy ghosts.”

“No, just a daft broomhead.”

On his hands and knees, Vash stared down, still straddling the narrow body. “Can you really sense something, Nick?”

“I— I don’t know. Maybe I’m just giving myself the creeps.”

“And what are you afraid of now?”

“Afraid?”

“You’re trembling.”

“M’not,” Wolfwood denied. He trembled. “Just… cold.”

“Oh.”

Vash settled down atop him, letting the man whine and complain and try to push him off until Wolfwood finally gave it up as a bad deal and said, “You’re freaking heavy. And if you don’t move, this’s gonna get real embarrassing in about three seconds.”

“What do you mean? …Oh.”

As his erection grew, Wolfwood again struggled to roll Vash off, expecting sure success this go around.

But the man lay there like a sack of potatoes.

“Do you want me to move?” Vash asked, his breath gusting over Wolfwood’s stubbly chin.

“Yes!”

Vash picked his head up, blinking his brilliant blue eyes.

Wolfwood made a struggling noise deep in his throat. “…errraaaaghh! Humph. …no.”

Vash smiled and then nervously bit his lower lip as he subtly rolled hips, grinding downward.

“You’re gonna fuckin’ kill me!”

“Think you got one of those verbs right,” Vash said.

Wolfwood could lay still no longer. His hands caressed up black leather and scarred skin to smooth over Vash’s cheeks. He held the man’s face as though cradling a butterfly and lifted his head to kiss the funny little mark at the corner of Vash’s fluttering eye.

Vash gasped and withdrew, shocked at the tender gesture.

“Not everything’s rough and tumble on this godforsaken rock,” Wolfwood told him. “Not everything leaves scars,” he promised. Then he said, “Oh goddammit,” when Vash began to cry.

His wide thumbs brushed the wetness away and he so gently murmured, “Quit it, stop that now, you knucklehead.”

When Wolfwood kissed the warm cheek, he marveled that the tears tasted sweet, and thought it must be a trick of the lust.

Vash kissed him back, calm and sure, and hot as the planet’s paired suns.

“Vash…”  Vash worked at Wolfwood’s shirt and then the belt and pants.

Wolfwood attempted to reciprocate, baffled by all the straps and fastenings.

“Leave it,” Vash mumbled against Wolfwood’s cheek.

“Gah, bastard,” the priest said, grabbing Vash’s ass and grinding up into the leather-clad groin.

The men huffed and panted, grabbed and kneaded, and they kissed until they spent themselves under the billowing sheets.

= = = = =

They ensured the fire was out and the flue closed before they shut away the dingy kitchen.

Wolfwood marveled at the numerous tracks that crisscrossed the dust of the foyer. He studied his own plain steps beside Vash’s distinctive boot prints and the way they interlaced like a spiderweb’s pattern over the creaking boards and faded carpets from the previous day’s meanderings.

The wind had stopped in the night, and Vash double-checked his bootlaces before opening the door to the bright, sandy landscape. He pulled on his sunglasses and smiled once at Wolfwood before ducking out onto the porch and into the early morning heat.

Wolfwood adjusted the cross on his shoulder and prepared to follow him out when the table with its cluttered trinkets caught his eye once more. He set down his oversized burden and his hand hovered above the table before plucking from amongst the wreckage a tiny silver frame coated with dust. Wolfwood raised it close to his face, and smeared his thumb across the glass to wipe away the dust. “What the…?”

His dark brows came together as he studied the little faces pictured there in shades of black and white. There was a little girl with two curling black pigtails in a beautiful little dress. With one arm around her, Vash smiled at the camera, offering his fingers in a V of peace.

“You coming?”

“Yeah,” Wolfwood hollered back, slipping the thing into his pocket.

He hefted the cross without a sound and ducked out of the mansion, pulling the door closed behind him.

= = = = =

The End

**Author's Note:**

> Trigun is one of my favorite anime (animes? Does ‘anime’ have a plural?); I could go on and on about symbolism and names, etc., but I have yet to see the series in its entirety, and I’ve only read partway through the continually growing manga. I also haven’t watched it in a while, but Vash and Wolfwood are freaking hot and I’ve always wanted to write a story for them.
> 
> After I decided on a haunted house for a motif, the story came pretty easily. I went back and forth about how in depth the sex would be, but decided that Vash would play his cards pretty close to the chest and would reveal as little of himself as possible.
> 
> I don’t give any direct clues as to when in the series this story would take place, and that’s probably because I’m not too sure myself. I guess it would be before the incident at July.


End file.
